As Ambrose was escorting her upperclassmen to the infirmary with the aid of the teacher who had been observing the ‘duel’ no one was aware that across the city, near the very walls Ambrose had crossed the day before, a massacre was occurring.
A group of high level drow night guards fought on in the shadow of the city walls, trying desperately to overwhelm an assailant.
“Vol Rigten! Left!” Shouted Commander Ashlyn, gripping her bow from the rear line as she loosed another arrow. The black haft barked through the air with the force of her shot, singing towards what looked like empty space next to the male she'd just warned. A half second later, the arrow was split by a slender blade, its halves flying harmlessly into the air as a woman in platinum armor backhanded the man, sending him tumbling to the ground in a sideways flip. The male landed on his neck with a sickening crunch and then ragdolled to a stop in front of the archer, the light beginning to fade from his stunned eyes.
She grimaced in displeasure, they were losing numbers fast. What had been a squad of two dozen soldiers dispatched to investigate the suspicious activity was already near half that, after encountering the armored woman and the strange cloaked figure. The person under that cloak had been a terrifying presence. Their gaze had struck two soldiers dead and with a wave of their hand another two had caught fire and burned to ash in seconds. Then they had melted into the ground, cloak and all, and hadn't been seen since.
The armored girl was no less a menace. Her speed and power were uncanny and she had drawn her sword and simply begun torturing trained warriors. Her technique was impeccable, with graceful parries and counters for almost every attack the guards had assailed her with, yet she wasn't countering to kill. She was dismembering her attackers with a blissful smile on her face beneath the visor of her elegant feathered helm. The men whom she had killed only received their ends once she'd severed something from their body.
Rigten had been the only male she'd neglected to take a limb or two from, and somehow, the drow commander was certain that his death had been an accident. Cursing again, she drew two arrows, one with a proper head, and the other a howler to alert the main guard in the city to their struggle. She lined up both arrows as if to fire them in unison at the girl, but at the last moment used a skill, split shot, to send the howler high. For a fraction of a second the loud screeching whistle of the howler sounded, and then a warped dark orb of something plainly evil appeared in its path.
The orb swallowed everything, from the arrow down to the light and air around it. The commander was lifted off of her feet toward the object for a moment, drawn several feet into the air before the evil presence winked out and dropped her and several of the other soldiers back to the ground. The majority of the guards were nimble or sturdy enough to land steady, but a few fell wrong, hurting themselves or tumbling off balance.
Before anything could be done to help those men, the armored girl was upon them, swinging her slender blade and giggling in a maddening, girlish voice that grated on the commander’s psyche. Her people were cornered and being toyed with and slaughtered, and she had no idea what to do about it. Each arrow she loosed either missed or was cut down casually. Every attempt to flee was blocked or foiled. Was there truly nothing to be done?
“Margaux, you are playing far too much with your food,” came a calm male voice that emanated from the very earth beneath their feet. The commander scanned the battlefield, desperate to find the source of the voice. Perhaps she could wound this new enemy and use that opportunity to escape. Yet no evidence of any person other than the girl could be found. “Take much longer and I will dispatch the rest before you can gain the experience.”
The armored girl paused in her sadistic slaughter of the drow company, looking down at the grass, her painted lips curling into an objectively adorable pout. “Awww… but this is the most fun I've had since we entered this Podunk kingdom. A few more minutes can't hurt,” the girl complained, batting away an attack from a spearman even as she whined.
“A few more minutes is too long. Cut it short. The Heiress will arrive within the hour. We must be in attendance,” the voice replied, its owner continuing to elude the commander's vision.
“Fiiiine,” the girl pouted, raising a gauntleted hand to her helm. “I don't know why we're still pandering to some barely S rank trash,” she mumbled before pulling the piece of armor off.
The commander drew back another arrow, looking to shoot the girl in the head once it was exposed. Yet when strands of pink and black hair fell free of that helm the drow found her grip on her bow going weak. Ashlyn had a husband, a wife, two children, and a few concubescent boy toys around the kingdom, but never in her life has she seen a woman so beautiful as the one who revealed her face on that battlefield.
The woman was beyond beauty, beyond gorgeousness. No words could capture the longing her lengthy lashes and batting pink eyes inspired in Ashlyn. Her even, thin brows and plush, lightly blushed cheeks were tantalizing and endearing in equal mind boggling measure. Lips crafted, sculpted, and cushioned by the gods dragged for Ashlyn to come closer, to steal sweet kisses from them.
The commander dropped her bow a moment later, beginning to move toward the platinum armored beauty. She wanted, no, needed to see more of her. The armor was in between her and her true love. Everything was in her way. The commander stomped over the corpse of Rigten, stumbling as she rushed along with the other Drow to reach her new love.
None of them noticed the slender blade in Margaux’s hand extending into segments, the now whip-like length coiling at her side as her gorgeous grin widened.
That smile was the true face of love, the face of a young goddess of joy. With her eyes on it, Ashlyn didn't care when the woman attached to that smile swirled and her blade threaded through man and woman alike, cutting them down like blades of grass. She didn't mind when the blood of her comrades splattered across her face, each of them still reaching for this goddess of beauty even in their death throes. She didn't even blame the beautiful young girl when the tip of Margaux's blade sank through her chest and punched a hole in her heart. She was just pleased that her last sight in this world would be that beautiful face, that lovely smile.
—
Ambrose, who had spent the last hour, or so, in the infirmary making sure she and her new friends received any and all healing necessary, marched the halls toward what she expected would be her first class of the semester when she heard someone chasing after her. Rather than try to outrun the person after her, or look back, Ambrose moved distinctly to one side of the hall, which was wide enough for eight people to march in line. If they were truly following her, their course would alter toward the side she was on. The footfalls changed course, following her movements as the person panted and clicked down the hall in their well pressed uniform and new boots.
Turning to face the person who was obviously moving in her direction, Ambrose prepared to shift. The person she found was not who she expected. The boy was a dark haired, slender human with a nice scent about him and an air of confident competency that made Ambrose like him almost immediately. He stopped a body length away from her and saluted, clicking his heels sharply with the gesture.
“Lady Di. His majesty, the Headmaster and Second Prince Olferig Garren von Diestol requests your attendance posthaste in the entrance hall,” the man said, cutting through the fat of the matter.
It took a moment for Ambrose to adjust to the use of her last name, seeing as she hadn't had one a week ago, but she shook it off and looked past her bangs at the man. “Did he say why he needs me? I’m supposed to be going to class,” Ambrose said, a little perplexed. She had already messed up on attending whatever history class she was supposed to go to with her Duel.
“The academy will be taking on some esteemed guests. As people of your status are considered nobility in their country it would be considered rude not to have you in attendance. All high ranking nobility must be in attendance as a show of respect,” the man explained. “Please, if you would, come with me.”
Ambrose waited a moment before nodding and moving to follow the man, who turned and began walking back down the hall. She knew very little of the neighboring countries of Diestol, and even less about one that treated M Ranks as nobility. Not that she'd known much about rank to begin with. Her life has been with the Demi-humans, not the elite of humanity.
Resolving to put her best foot forward, all Ambrose could do was shrug. She'd do her best.
—
When Ambrose made it to the entryway with her pleasant company, servants and the like were quickly bustling to make finishing touches. The space had seemed grand upon Ambrose's arrival, but now it was spotless, the floors polished to a mirror shine. Plants had been put out in massive vases adding rich color to the setting that it was missing and furnishings were present for everyone in attendance. It was the people in attendance who drew Ambrose’s attention.
On a high backed, beautifully upholstered chair sat Second Prince Olferig Garren von Diestol, his countenance the visage of brooding power as he sat leaning to the side, his chin couched on a fist and his eyes set on the main doors. Next to him, Third Princess Nayeli Gael Forvin von Diestol sat in a smaller seat, fidgeting in place. Her clothes had been changed, the blood splattered ones nowhere in evidence and her hair done up in a manner that was obviously rushed, but far more fitting for a princess than the plain wear she had adopted that morning.
A full couch had been set across from the Prince’s seat, the spacious furnishing even more grand in its make than his chair, a sign of serious respect and possibly deference. Ambrose's eyes widened as she began to understand the nature of what was happening around her. Whoever was visiting outranked him.
The guide deposited Ambrose not five feet away from the Prince, but left her standing, bowing to all three of them before becoming scarce. With his departure, the prince seemed to lose his broody affectation. He set his gaze on Nayeli and Ambrose, observing them both and then sighing when he noticed that Ambrose was still in her travel clothing. “Were you not given your uniform or some better attire this morning? He asked, the tone in his voice sugary as he tried to hide the accusation in his question.
“I received nothing but my schedule this morning. And that was delivered in the infirmary,” Ambrose replied, unflinching. She still didn’t like the man, though she had come to like the princess a little more after their encounter. But a nice sister does not suddenly turn the prince into an honest man who Ambrose would respect. She doubted any of his other siblings would manage that either.
The prince’s eye twitched, but he nodded and then turned away from her, looking back at the main doors. A second later trumpets sounded and he could no longer hide the scowl that held his genuine feelings on the situation. “I heard you and my sister have already made acquaintances. I hope you can both remain cordial while we entertain the Heiress of the Advelhein Empire and her attendants,” he said, his tone laced with urgency that his sister picked up on, nodding frantically before glancing at Ambrose.
“We will, brother,” she said, worry lacing her tone.
“I didn’t come to make trouble,” Ambrose said simply. She wasn’t here to assure the prince either, so she’d let him worry however much he wanted to.
Trumpets sounded again, this time even closer, and the Royalty straightened up. Ambrose relaxed. This was no more important to her than anything else in this castle town had been.
When the main doors finally opened to reveal the Heiress, Ambrose watched on as the royals stood to greet the woman on the other side. The Heiress was a tall, slender woman dressed in a white and red gown with a silvery embroidered serpent coiling down from the strap at her right shoulder and spiraling about her body on a trail of scarlet pleating that made the princess look like the bell of some beautiful flower. Her long, raven hair was done up in an immaculate bun with shimmering, platinum and pearl hair ornaments dotting her locks with snow-like dots of white.
The Heiress had the porcelain face of a doll, complete with full, perfectly painted lips, big, pretty eyes, and even, well plucked brows to complement her button nose. Ambrose noted that, like herself, the Heiress had white lashes, something she found interesting, but wouldn’t bring up later. The blush on the woman’s cheek was powder, though it was done lightly enough that Ambrose got the idea that the Heiress had enough emotion to her to blush naturally on her own from time to time. Somehow, that idea made her like the Heiress more than the prince. Not that doing so was a difficult thing. Yet something about the Heiress felt truly regal to Ambrose, in a way the prince simply couldn’t.
Behind her, followed two people whom Ambrose immediately thought of as guards. They traced her steps, matching her grace with their Aura’s of power. One was tall and slim, taller than the Heiress in their black cloak, which shielded the details of their body from Ambrose’s eyes. The other was a knight in full platinum plate. Hers was unmarked and bore no rune or national symbol, unlike Olferig, maintaining a sense of pristine power. A slender blade bounced off of her hip, and the plate protecting her thigh, its elegant scabbard leaving the edge exposed for some reason. Her helmet covered her head, eyes and nose, leaving her lips and jaw exposed. Ambrose imagined that she would be very pretty were the piece taken off.
The Heiress glided onto the floors of the academy, moving with simple, flawless elegance that only justified her immaculate dress. When she moved around the couch that Ambrose realized was entirely for her, she stood stock still, expectant. The prince and princess both bowed and Ambrose took the cue from them to do the same, only for the woman to gasp and then kneel until her head was below Ambrose's. Ambrose stood, wide-eyed while both of the guards eyed her, and then simply tipped their heads, the cloaked one first.
“Why is she not seated?! Why is she not well equipped?!” The Heiress demanded of the prince who, for the first time since Ambrose had met him, seemed genuinely chastised. He opened his mouth to say something before the knight spoke.
“This Kingdom has never been home to real power, Beatrix, it's only natural they wouldn't understand how to treat someone of her status,” the knight giggled. Ambrose figured as far as verbal slaps in the face went, that one probably stung pretty badly. A glance to her right told her that she was correct. Ulferig’s face had gone red.
“We had not had time to equip her,” the prince said, looking to recover face under the glare of the Heiress who seemed no happier with the knight's answer than she was with him. “As for her seating,” he started.
Something told Ambrose that if she allowed him to finish his statement, he would embarrass her just as much as himself, so she stepped in. “I chose to stand, Heiress Beatrix,” Ambrose interjected, cutting off the prince, who turned to glare at her.
“Oh!” The Heiress said, her cheeks turning red when Ambrose addressed her by title and name. “Pardon my questioning of your decision, blessed one,” the Heiress requested managing a curtsey from her knees.
“It is nothing, my lady. Please… I am only here to observe. Not interrupt,” Ambrose said, trying to recover from her own surprise at how well the Heiress was treating her. Stepping back, she put herself behind the prince and princess to show she was trying not to interfere.
The Heiress rose to her feet and glowered at both of the royals before seating herself on the beautiful furnishing supplied for her. Once she was seated, her guards did the same, in chairs that put them in equal status to Nayeli, if the chairs were still accurate indications of rank.
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As far as the Heiress seemed concerned M Ranks were supposed to be high ranking enough not to bow to her. That fact left Ambrose truly wondering if any level of rank mattered before raw power. That said, Ambrose decided that if everyone else in the room was going to analyze her rank, she'd do the same. What she found was… more surprising.
The Heiress was an S rank, as Ambrose expected from a Meritocratic Empire. But her guards were both M rank. Not one, but two people like her followed the Heiress of the Advelhein Empire. The thought was both humbling and terrifying. Which made Ambrose think that the empire was making some sort of power play.
Ambrose chose not to speak on that fact, instead looking into her statistics, which she had been adjusting earlier after her duel. The fight with the princess had yielded a level and Ambrose had made use of her stat points already, but something in her intuition told her she needed to begin reviewing her options and fast, in case things went south, as they tended to do when she was around people who should ostensibly be stronger than her. Twice in one morning, she thought to herself as the royalty in the room began to speak.
“Prince Olferig I would normally greet you with some small pleasantries and congratulate you on the success of your Academy before informing you that I cannot attend such a place, seeing as you lack the backing and power of an M Rank. As Heiress, it is my obligation to learn in all places where such protections are available. I had been told no such power existed here,” the Heiress said, her gaze on the prince still stern.
While it was obvious to Ambrose that the Prince had been expecting something similar to what she described, it was also obvious that her being present had been a mistake if they wanted such a thing to happen. Ambrose being in attendance somehow made the Heiress just leaving an unacceptable outcome. Now she needed to stay a while. Perhaps longer than a while.
“Could you elaborate,” the Prince asked, likely coming to the same conclusion as Ambrose. “You would normally do those things, but…”
“Honored and Blessed Lady Di is in attendance here. If she could be assigned to me as an escort, such an attendance would be mandatory on my part as well. If your institution is good enough for her taste, then surely it is of a quality Advelhein could learn from,” the Heiress said, her tone full of admiration that Ambrose was unsure the woman felt or not. “Is what I would like, to say. But this place has not treated her well. She is here in rags before me, no weapon to her name. Her blessings demand honored treatment and yet she is allowed, no… encouraged to stand as a serf would in a throne room. I do not feel safe, nor respected here. So my stay must be put into question regardless.”
Ambrose didn’t like how the Heiress sticking around suddenly depended on her. Not at all.
“I can assure you, your treatment here, during your stay, would be far different. You and your servants would be placed in the most lavish of our suites for your term of education here,” the Prince said, flooring Ambrose with his sudden eagerness to keep the Heiress in the city. Why would he want her in the city at all? Wasn't she set to rule another nation?
“You insult me, Prince. You expect me to believe you would treat me better than you do someone who is more blessed than either of us by Guidance?” the Heiress asked, glowering at him.
The split second it took for Ambrose to figure out why her instincts had pulled her to move and to shift almost cost two people in the room their lives. One second, the room was at peace, the next, Ambrose's reflexes were screaming at her to move. She shifted as she stepped twice, putting herself in front of the prince and to the side, raising the heater shield to block a shimmering streak passing toward the man from the side.
Extreme pain blossomed along Ambrose's arm as the shield split and a long, bloody gash opened up on her shield arm. Ambrose hissed but did not yield as the whip-like blade of the knight retracted, Ambrose's blood still dripping from it.
“Sturdy and astute,” the woman purred from her position next to the Heiress. “If she had a real shield that wouldn't have done a thing…”
The room came to life with shouts from guards and servants, the prince roaring in anger while Nayeli shrieked in fear. Ambrose kept her eye on the enemy in front of her, desperately looking for other options. Her shield was gone, split in half and useless. She might be able to rely on speed to evade the woman before her but that was likely her only option unless…
“Silence!” the Heiress commanded, her voice booming, shattering the noise of the main hall and leaving nothing in its wake. “Margaux. Stand down. The prince’s transgressions did not warrant you bringing me his head. Prince, seat yourself and calm your sister. This will be dealt with. Blessed one. My apologies that your prince had no other defense but to sacrifice your arm. Do you need healing?” the Heiress asked, addressing everyone in the room she seemed to think was involved and important.
“Your guard dares to attack the royal lineage!?” The prince hissed, seeming prepared to bring forth skills of his own. Nayeli had retreated all the way to the stairs in the time since the conflict began, and seemed to have no inclination to return herself to the attack range of anyone in the room.
“My Guardians will attack anyone who threatens or offends imperial royalty. As is their order by my father. However, this attack was made in error. Margaux is young, only two or three weeks into her power. She has yet to understand the gravity of my word and her actions,” the Heiress explained.
While the royals spoke around her, Ambrose shifted back to normal. Her shield did not disappear with her, the bloody halves of the faithful weapon remaining on the floor. The shift back left her with that same feeling she felt before when one of her forms was injured, but she ignored it for the time being, resolving to visit the infirmary again, later. Yet as she returned to normal, all arguments seemed to cease.
When she looked up, she found herself the renewed source of staring. Each person in the room eyed her, the Heiress with profound admiration, the prince with astonishment, the cloaked person with an aura of bemusement, and a raw, lusty hunger coming from Margaux. Ambrose liked none of it, moving to step out of the spotlight, only for the gazes to follow her.
“Blessed Lady Di?” the Heiress asked, eyes following her. “Did you heal that injury? Yourself?”
Ambrose shook her head and sighed, looking about. “I… put it away for me to deal with later,” she said, hoping that answer would suffice.
The Heiress turned her eyes to the prince, who looked back at her. “She… only arrived here with us last night. We have yet to learn all she's capable of,” he admitted. His admission only seemed to make the knight hungrier.
“So young?” the Heiress asked, glancing between the prince and Ambrose. Her eye had a keen twinkle to it.
“Well… while I do have trouble trusting you and your people with her so poorly cared for, I do believe I can offer you something of a compromise” the beauty continued.
The prince raised a brow and took his seat again, the princess doing the same a moment after. “Compromise?” he asked.
“In my homeland and many I have passed through, it is common for the nobility to indulge in wagers. Gambling, for the crass,” the Heiress led, raising her fingers to her lips to cover a light, tinkling simper. “Do the Nobility of Diestol Indulge?"
The prince raised his brow further, threatening to merge it with his hairline. Yet after a moment, he took a deep breath and then nodded. “We do, Heiress. What bet would you like to make with me and mine?”
“I would like to propose a competition. One between your young M Rank and my own. A simple, timed conflict,” the Heiress proposed. The prince looked ready to decline immediately, but the slender woman held up a dainty hand and continued. “As my guardian made slights against you, the odds will be in your favor. Should Blessed Lady Di win, I will attend your academy and pay not only your tuition, but also honors to you and Diestol’s King. Should time run out or there be a tie, I will attend your academy so long as proper accommodations are supplied and I am promised time with the lady herself. I would like to share her classes.”
The prince went from being ready to deny the Heiress her request, to considering it, to nearly agreeing on the spot. Apparently the woman was offering him things he would never dare refuse. Yet he managed to comport himself and clear his throat. “And if your guardian wins?” He asked.
“You will relinquish Lady Di into my care, and I will inform you that without the power and support of an M Rank, I will not be able to attend your academy,” the Heiress said, her smile turning predatory.
The prince scowled, and Ambrose felt the knight leer at her with intense interest bordering on making her uncomfortable. The Beastiary had no desire to fight anyone at that moment. She simply desired to hasten getting through her classes so she could worry about her evening and penning a letter home. None of those rewards benefited her in the least. None of them changed her situation.
While the prince was busy debating whether or not he could accept the bet for his own standing, Ambrose made the choice for the man.
“I decline the offer, Heiress. I do not belong to the prince, nor any of the family Diestol. I have made no vows and been promised nothing. If you wish to make bets with the Prince, please do so with things he can wager,” Ambrose said. The declaration seemed to shatter the entire masquerade and plunge the facade of the room into chaos. Where there had been some illusion of power on the side of the Prince, there now was none.
“Then… Why did you save him?” the Heiress asked, perplexed. Apparently saving people you didn't owe anything to wasn't common where the princess was from.
“Because he was under attack and likely would have been grievously wounded for no reason,” Ambrose shrugged, glancing at the man before continuing. “It's how I was raised. You help when you can and where you can because you can.”
The Heiress considered that. Going quiet for a moment.
“Then why do you not aid him now?” the armored girl asked, seeming just as curious as her mistress.
“Because he doesn't need my help. He wants something from me so he can get something from her,” Ambrose pointed out, nodding over to the Heiress. “He needs to be reminded that I am not an object, and I am not his servant before he promises something that I will not deliver for him.”
The Heiress put on a pout so adorable Ambrose could see men throwing out their lifelong plans to tend to her desires. Then she glared at the prince again, who seemed to deflate as he realized just how little he had gained of Ambrose's loyalty.
“What would it take for you to participate in our wager, Blessed Lady Di?” the Heiress asked, maintaining an air of politeness that only made Ambrose like her more. It felt good to be considered, even if being called ‘Blessed,’ and a ‘Lady’ was strange to the young woman.
Ambrose looked over at Olferig, who seemed to be pleading with his eyes, and then back to the Heiress before answering. “I would like compensation. Actual equipment would be a nice start, as well as assurance that I will be medically treated for any injury sustained in this fight as well as the one I received before it. I'd also like supplies and time to write home, as I miss my family. I've been dragged around the countryside and isolated for the better part of a week. I don't want that to be the case any more. If I can have all of that, regardless of if I win or lose, I'll consider this.”
Before the last syllables had fully left her lips, three people in the room were shouting in agreement. Ambrose idly wondered if all meetings amongst royals ended up being so loud.
“You will have all of those things,” the Heiress promised a second time, once the noise had died down. “Without question, on my word as Heiress to the Advelhein Empire. Should you indulge us of your own accord, those things and more will be supplied to you.”
Ambrose sighed. Part of her was proud of herself. She'd spoken up and made the demands she thought she deserved of the people who wanted to make puppets of her. Yet in some ways she felt she'd only made things worse for herself. Now the Heiress seemed to want her even more, and if things turned out poorly for the prince, he would be petty and resentful to her for pressuring him. Even if things turned out positively he wouldn't leave her be. He would forcefully attempt to buy her loyalty. As she nodded to the Heiress, Ambrose wondered if she could truly afford the house of worries she had just won herself.
—
Ambrose didn't even listen to the royals as they hashed out terms and conditions after that point. She had no interest in being distracted at such a critical juncture. While she could simply forfeit, she doubted that either royal would be pleased with such an outcome. Throwing the fight sat poorly with her as well, which left giving the duel her all. If she were going to do that with one of her forms no longer available to her due to being injured, she needed to focus on her possible assets.
As far as she was concerned, the best outcome she had been presented with between the three the Heiress had mentioned, a draw or time out was the best. If Ambrose won, the princess would be at the mercy of the prince and his lackluster hospitality and might be forced to leave Ambrose under his sole scrutiny. Losing was a poor option too, as, while the Heiress had been nothing but respectful of Ambrose, the woman was obviously traveling. If Ambrose left the Academy with her, she would inevitably be further from home, and with a nation that was not necessarily allied to the one where her home resided.
The thoughts in Ambrose's head left her with only two major options. She could make use of her catfolk form, or she could risk dealing with the redcappi again. Either one she picked would likely need to be enhanced using her Investment of Essence skill to possibly evolve the form. Yet Ambrose had never evolved a form before. She didn't know its repercussions, nor did she have any idea how doing so would affect her own reaction to the form. Could she risk the possibility that the violent urges of the Redcappi would become worse? Could she resist the desire to paint the world red if she let that form take hold?
Ambrose wasn't certain. She was certain that the redcappi would have the speed she would need, and likely the offense as well to possibly seriously compete with the woman who had cut open her arm. But Ambrose didn't see that level of risk as worth it. Luckily for her, ruling out the redcappi and whatever its evolution was, left her with just one option.
“We will leave the center of this hall open for your combat,” the prince declared, clapping his hands and summoning the servants to move the furniture as the royals and the cloaked figure moved to the far side of the hall to observe the duel. The servants who were surrounding the hall at this point, both cleaning staff and guards alike, spread for the royalty, but remained to witness a combat between two M Ranks.
Ambrose eyed the armored girl, who seemed to be leering at her like the first steamy bite of a favored cuisine. The woman was itching to fight, itching to cause pain and harm. That eagerness alone was incentive enough for Ambrose to choose not to play around. She had the points to evolve one form fully along with two extra to spend some other time. In that moment, she was certain that she needed the nimble speed and flawless reflexes the catfolk form would hopefully provide. Otherwise she would be overwhelmed and cut to ribbons.
With a motion of will she pushed all five points of essence into the catfolk form. With each point she felt an immediate boost, though not to her own body. It was as though her feline instincts, the ones that lingered with her a little after taking the catfolk form were enriched and emboldened. Yet on the fifth point, something even more wondrous happened.
Power welled through Ambrose and she shifted automatically. Once again Ambrose felt her body slim, her height dwindling into the realm of the petite while black silks wreathed her shapely figure. She felt the floor under soft, comfortable pads for her paws and the flick of her long, feline ears. Yet where her catfolk form had always felt balanced and stable, she now felt completely in control. A level of calm certainty filled her and her senses seemed to spread beyond her normal limits. The vivid sight and hearing she enjoyed in the form had redoubled, and she was less than delighted to find that her sense of smell was also deeply empowered. No one in this area showered nearly enough for her own tastes.
Rather than try and find a mirror to see if the visual aspects of the form had changed much, Ambrose consulted her stats and began scanning with a quickness.
Ambrose Di
Class : Mystic Bestiary
Rank : M
Race (current) : Pantrada
Level : 7
Adaptive Might : 20
Adaptive Virility : 24
Superlative Feline Grace: 32
Adaptive Comprehension : 20
Keen Night Hunter's Awareness: 32
Lunar Blessings : 38
Class Abilities: Bestiary of Forms, Investment of Essence
Bestiary of Forms:
Bestiary may freely shift between a number of forms dictated by their level.
Forms Chosen [4/4]
Pantrada - Evolved - Investment 5/5 - No items
Lambda - Unevolved - Investment 0/5 - No items
Merfolk - Unevolved - Investment 0/5 - No items
Redcappi - Unevolved - Investment 0/5 - No items
Investment of Essence:
Invest points into a form to enhance that form’s unique statistic by 10% Potency per point spent.
5 investments of one form will result in an evolution of that form.
5/7 spent.
Racial Abilities:
Native Dark Sense
Tumbler
Feather Foot
Contortionist
Leaper
Evasive
Planetfall
Moonstep
Lunar Essence
Gravity Daze
Skills: None
